Quoth the Raven, "Meow?"

Meet Raven. We got her for free over the summer.
Head and tail of a Siamese, black coat with hidden stripes, and
 brown eyes.

She's very curious and nosy.

She loves to help me read,

and enjoys watching TV; particularly,
Scooby-Doo.

Her fashionable carrier, decorated by yours truly!

She's very modern, loving to watch the keyboard and
mouse, and uses touch screen devices.

Here she is in a deep, deep sleep.

She used to fit under the bathroom vanity, but those
days are long gone. 

Diary of a Picky Eater: Week 2

This week, unfortunately, there was not much I tried in terms of "new food." Finding foods that (A) I can eat with my colitis and (B) are healthy for me is a struggle. I wish I had the time to endlessly cook these things at home (and the skill, now that I think about it), but my days are filled with work and writing. The only time I have to cook is at night, with my mom.

On the plus side, I have been adding more fruit into my lunchbox, and hummus! A year or so ago, if I'd eaten hummus, I would have felt as though I was going to vomit. It was something about the texture. Then, one summer afternoon, my grandmother took out hummus and bagel chips for a snack, and I tried it. What happened, taste buds? I can't get enough now! Of course, since I can't have raw vegetables, I eat hummus with--you guessed it--carbs, but it's a start to the healthier lifestyle I need.

At my house, once I got back from college, I started to realize we ate, for the most part, the same things every week for dinner. We'd have pasta, steak, hamburger, take out, and cycle through them the next week, occasionally adding in something different. And most of it is beef--for my colitis, meat like chicken or fish is a better option. It is now my goal to add more of this into our dinner.

Let me tell you, it's a struggle.

The good news is, with winter approaching, we've started to make Sunday nights our soup night, which means endless possibilities for yummy cooked vegetables, meat, and nutrients that will help me feel better. Last week, I helped make a chicken noodle soup that turned out delicious!


This week...

Manhattan Clam Chowder. Like hummus, this is something else I thought I hated until I ate it a couple of summers ago at a local eatery. Taste buds, you shock me again! Except this time it was homemade, so we added whatever our hearts so desired, and it came out amazing. We made Manhattan style because I cannot have dairy, eliminating what I imagine is a delicious New England Style Clam Chowder from the menu.

Raspberries. I tried this at the request of my brother, who was munching them down one by one. It tasted good, except rather sour. I don't mind the flavor. But it was the texture that got me; it was all squishy and blech! I'm the type of person who enjoys fruits like grapes crisp and crunchy, not to mention cold. I think I'll try this in a smoothie soon.

Letting Go of a First Love

From underneath my bookshelf, I pull a Harry Potter Deluxe Journal, complete with built-in light and an illustration of Harry on the cover, riding his broom. I remember receiving it, probably from a Scholastic book fair, eager to begin writing in it. This is my first journal, from 2004, when I was in fifth grade. Settling down on my bed, I start to read--noting that most of it has to do with Harry Potter, making my life more Harry Potter, and becoming increasingly more obsessed with Harry Potter as the year progresses in my journal. Well, nothing's changed there. 

Turning one page, I read to the end and stop. Up until this point, I make references to story ideas and what short story I am working on at the moment. Here is what I found, the reference to the next story I was working on, just a blip, but it's there, nonetheless.

Currently, this is the revision I am working on,
what once was just the "Silver Necklace Legend."

Laying the journal down on the bed, I cover my mouth with my hands in amazement. Eleven Years. Of course, it hasn't been a constant eleven years. Between then and now, not only have I worked on other stories, but I also have worked on school papers and taken breaks from writing. Yet throughout those years, this story has transformed.

Basically me with this story. 

And this revision I started a little more than a week ago will be my last. Once I write it and complete editing afterwards, that's it.

I believe I'm having a hard time letting go of this story since it is so ingrained in my mind. Some of the characters are even completely original; meaning, their character arc may have matured, but their name, place within the story, and entrance into the story have not. Writing for them is like writing about myself; they are close friends. How can I let go of something that intimate?

The answer? Because I have to.

In middle school, I moved "The Silver Necklace," which since then has changed titles many times, onto my laptop, a Dell 2000 whose only purpose was to serve my writing needs. I completed 80 pages of pure, inventive creativity, or twelve chapters. And then, one afternoon after reorganizing folders in My Documents, I'd opened my story only to discover I'd deleted it by accident. I had clicked on the shortcut to the document, and deleted the actual document--emptying the recycle bin in a burst of organizational inspiration.

All of it was gone. I was in eighth grade.

I wrote about this event in my journal at the time:

Although at the start it was still a tragedy, it became a blessing as I worked to rebuild. In a notebook, I timelined everything I could remember (I still have it filed away), and came up with an ending to the first installment of "The Silver Necklace." I know that because I deleted that 80 page copy, I was granted the gift of looking at it critically.

Drafts later, a short break where I thought I was "finished with that story for good," and here I am, at the end of it all. Can it already be the end? I'm not sure I'm ready to say goodbye to all of my favorite characters, one of which will probably end up being THE ultimate favorite, simply because he is the oldest character in my story. It'll be a challenge, but I know this is a challenge I have to complete. Finishing a story, adding "The End," and starting fresh--without ideas for "The Silver Necklace" turning over in my mind in the background--is the first step. The second is letting go.

I've still got plenty of time before the final goodbye. For now, I will enjoy every minute I'm in my character's heads.

Diary of a Picky Eater: Week 1

The news my colitis (the simplest definition? an irritation of the colon) was getting worse did not sit well with me. What made matters worse was that my doctor was prescribing me heavy-duty meds to make everything better.

That is, if one thing didn’t work, he would try the other.

This means I only have a limited time until the inevitable.

And it got me thinking. Since the symptoms of colitis (most common one is diarrhea, for me) can be prevented through my food choices, what foods am I eating that are actually doing me harm? Most of my diet is compromised of red meat and carbs. Typically, I avoid fruits and veggies of all kinds since *shudder* they taste icky.

Except, not only has it been a long time since I tried those foods, but the foods I eat a lot of typically aren’t good for those with colitis. In fact, in some people, red meat is known to cause flare ups of symptoms.

I knew it was time to try more foods and stick to them. This is my “Diary of a Picky Eater,” and I will be blogging what foods I try as I go through the weeks since I do not enjoy any foods of the kind that are good for me to eat.

Oh boy, this is going to be…fun?

1. That Awful Stuffed Mushroom. It was an endeavor I should have never attempted, but when my mom offered me a mushroom stuffed with crab, I swallowed hard and held it aloft in the air, crying, “For my colon!” and bit into the gooey, horrible, bad tasting mess. (I spit it out. I won’t be trying mushrooms again soon.)
2. Chicken Pot Pie Failure. Because Chicken Pot Pies usually feature unslightly foods like carrots or—cover your eyes, kids!—peas, I was not too eager to try this particular pie. Whenever we eat it at home, I usually make something for myself so I can avoid any peas. Yet this time, I was ready. Mom sliced the pie open…and….it was nothing but chicken and some sort of cream. There was one carrot in the entire pie. We’d gotten it from the frozen section. Next week I’m requesting we make our own. 
3. Chicken Noodle Soup with Spinach, Carrots, Celery, and Onions. First of all, YUM! I love chicken noodle soup normally, but the addition of the celery, spinach, and onions was a big deal. I made sure to chop the spinach up into smaller pieces, so it wouldn’t be floating around like little green monsters. (“You just throw it in,” my mom said as I did this, but I ignored her.) And, success! Instead of leaving a pile of food left over in my bowl, I cleaned off the entire thing. Spinach and all!
4. Butternut Squash Ravioli with Tomato Sauce. Deep breath! On this day, I had no meat whatsoever for supper. It was a good thing my mom was sitting down because she witnessed me eat an entire plate of butternut squash ravioli! The tomato sauce covered up what might have been some awful tastes (although I tasted nothing but deliciousness), and my mom later bragged to relatives about how I ate this dish. I’m hoping to try it with different sauce next time.
5. Almond Milk, Strawberry/Banana Smoothie. Not much to say here, except why didn’t I try this sooner?!

A brave week, and all better for both my entire body and my colitis. At this point, though, I’m just hoping I can keep it up! 

Back to the Blog--and a Little Wiser, Too

The roller coaster hit me hard, and somehow I’ve managed to emerge on the other side happy, full of adrenaline, and somewhat whole.

I previously wrote how my job was making me unhappy. Not wanting to write is my worst nightmare. This job—sitting at a computer for hours typing in the same information—did just that. Even as I continued working there, I knew I had to leave. Soon. 

What else happened? In mid-August, my colitis flared up for the first time since I’d been diagnosed in July 2012. I can say now that it was a learning experience because I know what to expect next time it hits. The most difficult thing was that I could justify myself going to work. It wasn’t like my boss was in the dark about the subject, her daughter has colitis, but it’s who I am. When I was little and too sick to go to school, my mom would have to hold me back from running for the bus. I can honestly say, in that regard, nothing has changed.

So, when my job at the company ended, it was a huge relief. What I needed was rest and lots of it on my time away from working. I napped every day with Raven, my four month old kitten, and by the end of the week interviewed at another company, and landed the job. I would start Monday.

My new job is a breath of fresh air. It’s a small company with maybe seven people at most working there every day, compared to the large one I was at before. We talk, we laugh, we get work done, we say bless you when someone sneezes (which no one did at my other job, weird), we get to know each other. Most importantly, I do different things. I answer and make phone calls, I work with filing, I organize, and…GAH! Doing multiple things—scratch that, LEARNING multiple things at a job, about a local company, is a privilege. All of this I can take with me onto the next job, and the next, and the next.

Now, I’ve been wondering why my perceptions of jobs has changed. This job by no means is my dream job, but so far I’m not dreading going there (it’s only been a week, though, so we’ll have to see when that changes!). I think I’ve discovered that in order to find time to write, I have to force time to write, even if it’s in small patches. I’ve discovered that writing is my priority, but while I’m writing I can work, too, and gain more skills along the way.

Writing is what makes me happy, and adding it to my day is by no means a burden. I’m sure you can understand. It feels good to finally have answers to some questions bouncing around in my mind. But I’m still only 22, so there’s bound to be more—and soon!  

After School

 It is often portrayed in movies, or even through the words of adults (teachers, parents, friends, family) that being in high school and college will help better define you as a person, or who you’re going to be. Now this may be true for some, and I definitely discovered some things about myself during those 8 years, but this is most certainly not the truth for everyone.

High school was not too bad for me. I found my group of friends (all obsessed with Harry Potter, reading, drama club, or all of the above). I danced 15-20 hours a week, as well as joined the school plays to dance. I received good grades. My plan, all through those years as well as through middle school, was to go to college for creative writing. Honestly, there is nothing else that I want to do. If I am to go devote my time to something, I don’t want to be doing it just to make money or because it’s a popular profession. I wrote as often as I could, on short stories (that were failures) and a portal fantasy story, the one that I am revising today.

That’s who I was: dancer, friend, writer, good student.

In college, that changed. I was still a good student, and I did join ballroom dance, but after my sophomore year, I quit. I got a job in the Writing Center at school, peer tutoring. I devoted most of my time to my grades and my writing, when I was out of school. Most of the time, I pondered this: who was I now? What was my identity? Writer, reader, good student, girlfriend, and someone who happens to have colitis. Different, yes, but school was still there to ground me.

I just graduated college in December, and walked in May. School has been thrown out of the mix, tossed into the past until I decide (IF I decide) to go back to school and get my Masters. Once again, people are pressuring me to go into something that would make a lot of money. I can write on the side, they say, and this is true. I would love to go back to school, but to dive back in after I just left would mean that I still would have school to ground me.

I don’t want that.

I want to figure out who I am without school. I want to roll in the possibilities, to find new hobbies, to meet new people—except oh wait I’m an introvert. I have colitis, I write, I read, and I am a feminist. What else? What am I missing? What do I believe in? Discovering who I am without school—as well as pushing the fear that I will only be good at school and nothing else—is difficult. It wouldn't be worthwhile, though, if it wasn't. 

Quite Simply, I Fell in Love

On top, the VHS I got when I was 9.
All the way to the right, the Sorcerer's Stone book
that I destroyed in my love. 

The sight of the move trailer on the television sparked my interest. Wide-eyed, I told my mom later that movie, and, of course, she repeated her mantra: “You have to read the book, first.” It was okay, though, because she had a copy of it in the classroom she worked in at the local school.

that I wanted to see

She handed me the copy, and I ran my fingers over the strange, golden letters of the title. I looked at the cover that showed a boy flying: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I was eight years old, and by the time I was done reading it, the book cover was so destroyed with the pleasure of reading that my mom told me I could keep it and she’d buy another one for the classroom.

There are many stories in my life connected with the Harry Potter series. At my ninth birthday party, for example, as I blew out the candles I wished for the Sorcerer’s Stone VHS. Guess what was in the first present I opened from my grandparents? When I was ten, I received a magazine with the new film’s details on the inside spread. Those pages were so destroyed that I ended up tearing them from the magazine, and I still have them in a binder. I remember waiting in line for Prisoner of Azkaban that stretched across the parking lot, and some man stepped out of line at the front and shouted, “DUDE HARRY POTTER IS SOLD OUT!” Or receiving my copy of Half Blood Prince at a midnight party after taking an eerie, nighttime walk, and on the way home I took my book light out to read in the car. (“Don’t stay up all night reading!” Mom told me.)

I am so grateful for this series, and I wouldn’t know where I would be without it. It might not have begun my journey into reading and writing, but it definitely enhanced it. Not only that, but it also enhanced my life. I read the first book when I was eight years old and saw the final movie at age eighteen. Ten Years.

Pretty much.

In high school, that’s what drew us together. I met a friend in gym class over the love of Harry Potter, one girl I befriended in Spanish class over our love of writing and the series, another I met freshmen year in science—I am still friends with them today. We talked about the upcoming films, planned our Deathly Hallows Part 2 midnight showing, laughed about the Starkid musicals…

I suppose I came here to say that when I started reading that first Harry Potter book in 2001, I didn’t expect to fall in love. And I wouldn’t have dreamed that fourteen years later, I would still be just as obsessed and in love (probably a teensy bit more obsessed).

I JUST LOVE HARRY POTTER OKAY. *cuddles with books and films and tshirts and posters and ties and wands and magazine articles and…*

The Greatest Expectation

A few days ago, someone my brother and I knew, a mom of kids we went to school with, started working with him in a bakery. And she asked after me. Not after what I was doing with my career, or what I was doing with school, however. She asked if I was married or not.

My brother passed it off as silly, laughing as he closed the door to my bedroom, where I had been sitting with a whiteboard, plotting my fantasy work in progress. The marker hung in my hand. So strange to hear after this woman since I hadn’t seen her daughter since 8^th grade. So strange that her daughters are married already. So strange that she would assume I was married…and not bother asking anything else about me at all.*

Strange? The more I thought about it, not so much.

Marriage is not for everyone—women or men, but it is pushed onto women more often than men. Men can be independent without judgment, and if someone asks about them, odds are it won’t be about marriage. After all, how often are they asked who they’re wearing at the academy awards?

I hate the idea that women are viewed as having to want or having to be married. News flash! Not everyone wants the same thing, and if a woman wants to do it single then she should do so without judgment. She should be able to—but she’s not. This is the 21^st century, people. How often are we going to pretend we’re in the Middle Ages? No, she doesn’t have to be married to accomplish everything she needs to succeed in life. No, she doesn’t have to be attached to a man, either. She can do what she dreams, with or without a husband.

Even if she wants to be married, she can still fulfill her dreams. There should be nothing standing in her way. In anyone’s way.

“Did she go to school? Where? What is she doing now?” are all questions that could have been asked from this Mom who blasted to the bakery from 2007. Instead, they all fell to the ground, only to be trampled by strangers in passing.

*For the record, yes, I do want to eventually get married. But my writing, at this point in my life, is more important, as is my career. 

Mudding Along in My Career: Working for Coin

“Haven’t you liked doing the work?”
“Of course I have. I just wish I could go slower in order to enjoy selecting the glass more, to feed myself with each beautiful swirl, to linger over the nuances building up. If I don’t love the feelings I have while creating those windows, I’m only working for coin and not from soul.” (Clara and Mr. Tiffany, Susan Vreeland, 53)

I have been doing a lot of thinking about my job lately. Despite my perpetual hatred for its tedious nature and few interactions with humans, I am trying to remind myself it is only a stepping stone. I will not be entering data into Microsoft Access forever; this will lead me to better things. Only, doing that is difficult when every day I go to work hating my job.

The other day, my grandparents came to drop something off at my house. Since I got the job entering data, my grandfather has taken it upon himself to check the newspaper’s classifieds every day for a job I might like.

“He’s still looking!” my grandmother laughed, “But I approve the jobs! I know you want to get a job doing something you like.”

My internship at the historical society. I was looking through
old documents on this day. THIS was working for the soul. 

Then, the saddest words I have come to hear reached my ears. Grandpa said, “I never did the job I always wanted to do…a mechanic, working with cars. Instead, I drove a truck around delivering newspapers. I went for the money.”

“No, that’s now how it is for kids today,” Grandma intervened, “They want to do what they enjoy and not for the money!” (At least, for me it’s this case. For others it is completely different, of course.)

This brings my back to the quote from Clara and Mr. Tiffany by Susan Vreeland that began this post: “I’m only working for coin and not from soul.” Working for money is not the direction I want my career goals to take. I’d rather be happy working with my writing and whatever else strays across my path then being comfortable with a job that makes me unhappy. Ever since I was little, that was my goal: To have a job that makes me happy to go into work, excited. 40 hours a week is, after all, a long time to waste time doing something you hate.

I have worked four jobs, including my internships. Both actual jobs I got paid for I enjoyed, including the grocery store cashier. My internships, however, were not challenging enough and I always finished my writing much sooner than my supervisors expected. 

Last year, during my internship at the historical society, the day came when I absolutely loved what I was doing and that was looking through old letters and newspaper clippings in a box. I remember organizing what was in the box according to a list that was provided and reading the recipes that were there while typing them up. (To see the finished product, go here.) I thought about including this in my possible job searches, yet no ideas have come up yet. 

And so the search continues to discover where my career passions lie. I am determined find happiness, whether it be in one job or a mixture of them that I find as the years pass. Each experience working will bring me a better idea of what I need to make me both happy and inspire my writing. Unfortunately, punching data into Access does not fulfill those requirements. 

Just like Clara says in the quote, I am going to work for soul and not for money. In the end, that’s what will make my life worthwhile, and until I have reached that point in my career, my writing will suffice in keeping me sane in between breaks from the database.  

Have Wheels, Will Tumble

Growing up, some of my favorite books to read were TheAmazing Days of Abby Hayes, written by Anne Mazer, in which ten year old Abby navigates the world and her seemingly perfect family by writing in her journal. Book number five I pulled from my shelf less than five minutes ago, and it is called Have Wheels, Will Travel. In it, Abby decides to save up her money and buy herself a new pair of roller blades, so she can go out with her friends. 

Middle of Nowhere, New England is a place not friendly for roller blading. Rocks cover the driveway to my house, and there are no sidewalks; there was nowhere for me to roller blade. It’s always been a small dream, never fulfilled.

Until few weeks ago, when I sat at the table in my friend's house eating, when he blurted out, "Do you know how to roller blade?" 

Well, I thought, I can roller skate and I can ice skate so it shouldn't be too hard. "Yeah," I replied, the spontaneous offer already making me nervous, "Why?"

"I think my mom's skates will fit you." He dashed away and returned with them in his hands. They fit me perfectly. "Let's go!" I trailed behind him in my socks, making time just to grab my phone. 

Once we arrived, I felt like Abby Hayes. Before she has her own, new pair of roller blades, she has to wear her sister's old pair and the buckles stick. Putting on my pair, I realized I had no idea how to do it.  After some fumbling and help, they were on tight.

My legs were wobbly when I started off. "I'll get the hang of it," I tell him as he glided without effort over the pavement, a walking path near his house. "Once I get going, I'll be fine."

Funny enough, I did do fine. Not good, since he was trying to show me the correct way of skating without breathing like I just ran a marathon, but still, I was steady on my feet. As we reached the hill, I squealed in glee, ready to take on the challenge and climb up it--except I did not account for going down. 

A walking path I saw once that represents what the
walking path near my house looks like--not suitable for
anything with wheels!

The left side of the walking path has a bit of sand, for horses when they walk. For most of the hill, I was swerving a little, not too much, though; however, I was afraid to stop and fall because of my speed. I could see it as it happened. I started drifting to the left, towards the sand. It must have been a spectacular fall to see. At the other end of it, I was laying on the ground with sand sticking to my sweaty skin. Glancing up, I saw my friend had skated far down the hill and did not know I fell; he swerved around as I was standing up to brush myself off. 

"What happened?" he called, grinning like a fool. "You should have stopped yourself." The scrapes on my legs weren't too bad, so we continued on, discussing the story I was writing along the way. 

It wasn't until he stopped to grab his phone that I tried to stop too, flailing my arms around to find what little balance left me long ago. Down I went, on my knee. Sitting on the ground, I saw it was a huge scrape and blood was already starting to drip down. "I have something to tell you," I said, "I don't think I know how to roller blade." (Later, my mom confirmed it with a dumbfounded expression as she said, "You have never roller bladed in your life!") 

"Okay, we'll turn around and go home," he reaching his hand to help me up, grinning again. The trek back was too long; it was a relief to flop into his car and tear the skates from my feet.

Realization spread over me. I asked him why we didn't put on knee pads, and he said it was because I told him I knew how to roller blade.

Next time, I’ll stick to walking.

Writing, Jobs, and Happiness

The past two weeks have not been productive for my writing at all. Besides a few thoughts that pass through my head on a regular basis (always the same thought), besides jotting these thoughts down in my notebook, and besides reading?

No words.

No plotting.

Just questions, which is good, don't get me wrong, but how is it good when I don't even feel like starting to answer them?

It was a revelation when I discovered my writing productivity, i.e. my happiness, was related to the job I was doing. About a month ago, I was temporarily hired to a company and my job is to put data from emails I am sent into a database. The schedule was much better than my previous schedule at the grocery store, always shifting and changing. After the initial excitement of the job wore down, I realized something was wrong. Was it me? My attitude?

This week, I recognized what it was: The Job. 

I wasn't sure what picture to put here.
I took this laying down on my back on
the deck, in summer. 

This job (that I am unsure of when it is ending) is not challenging, I don't talk to anyone, it doesn't involve something I like doing (such as organizing or writing), and I sit there all day, typing. It kills me that I am doing it just for the money--not that I have a choice, really, since I have debt to pay off from school and am saving for a new vehicle. Doing something for the money, not for my happiness, is my worst nightmare.

Happiness is what matters the most to me in my lifetime, and to everyone. Through all this, I have reached a conclusion: The type of job I have will affect the writing I do in my free time. 

Having a job that destroys what I want to do most in the world, writing fantasy, is...Unfathomable. As said in Kerri Majors' This is Not A Writing Manual, anything that kills my (or your!) writing is not worth doing. But discovering what job I enjoy and feeds my writing is another task in itself. Discovering a job that keeps me healthy sounds impossible.

And yet, I find myself up for this task. If my happiness is at stake, if my writing is at stake, then I am willing to go as far as I can to gain it.

What about you? Do you find a particular job feeds your writing and your health?

#FP - Week Three

Week Three

The lion woke up surprised to find a small child standing before him. She pulled at his mane. “Get up, our adventure won’t wait.”

The man cried, “Aid me! Kill the most evil man in the land!

The wizard smiled. “It’s done. You already drank the poison this morning.”

Her headache grew worse and worse until finally she took off her head and threw it against the wall. Much better.

In a heartbeat, the assassin feel dead at her feet. Stumbling back, alarms ringing in her ears, she looked towards the trees.

Her fear outweighed her common sense. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and let go. #WIP 

Writing For 100 Days (Actually, 101)

As a college student, one of the most difficult ideas to wrap my head around was how to sneak my writing into my schedule. During my last semester, I held three jobs: one 15+ hours/week, one 12 hours/week, and one 2 hours/week. In addition to that, I was taking all English classes--including my senior seminar and a fiction workshop. With more than 100 pages to read every night, writing for fun was daunting.

I'll admit it, I did not write a lot that semester. Or any semester of college, in fact. My priority for good grades outweighed my writing goals. 

One of my friends changed this. The entire time I've known him (a little more than a year now), he has been asking me, "Did you write today?" Of course, I would answer, "No, I have a lot of homework..." Glancing at me, he'd respond, "Come on, you have to write." 

When I graduated, he'd come up with an idea: To write every day, and after so many days, to increase that amount. We started at 1000 words and have worked our way up to 2000. I had my doubts at first, but overall it's been a rewarding experience. 

Writing every day no matter what empties me, calms me, gives me something to look forward to at the end (or the beginning) of the day. I can also remember what I've written, which is lucky since I have a hard time keeping track of what my character's look like. It gives me a chance to finish a project--and this I love since writing every day, increasing the amount, would be great for a first draft. Part of my 100 days was spent writing one. 

Yet, keeping on track can be overwhelming, and I am reaching that point now. To have to sit down every day and work on something that that is not as exciting as it once was...drains your spirit. 

101 days of writing--straight, no breaks, no skips--is giving me clarity into what I want my writing routine to look like, for current and future projects. What once was a jumbled mess of "how will I fit it into my schedule?", becomes a way to not only keep myself from getting drained, but also teaches me how to fit writing (the equivalent of breathing) into my work schedule. 

At this point in the process, I am not sure how long I will continue writing for the next 101+ days, but I know I will make every effort. 

#FP - Week Two

Week two is brought to you by these five Friday Phrases, from Friday's past!

• She ran. The portal was on the other side of campus. If she wasn't quick enough, the battle would be lost. Her father would be killed.

• As she wrote in her notebook, she found a small note stuck on the other side of the cover. "Write my story next, please?"

• In the late hours researching, she fell asleep with her head bent, smelling the pages of the book. Marvelous.

• The old man was said to have possessed magic. But on the other side of his fingernails, we found no trace of it.

• He didn’t want to go to sleep. As soon as he closed his eyes, he would witness a nightmare—a hell he couldn’t escape. 

Welcome to My Bookshelf

My current "to read" pile. There are more on my shelf.
I wonder when this will topple over...

As we get to know each other more, I decided it would be interesting to give you a tour of the books on my "favorites shelf." Originally, I was able to fit all of my favorites on it; however, since then my collection of books has grown to encompass the top row of two bookshelves, and, really, no shelf at all.



There are some that have earned their place on my "favorites shelf" more recently. Such as:

• The Essential Don Murray, by Thomas Newkirk and Lisa C. Miller. I bought this book for class with only one thought in mind: "Who is Don Murray and why is he essential?" As I read, it was strange. Don Murray was an old friend. I recognized his advice that had been sparkled across my Twitter feed, my Writer's Digest magazines, and many more books. This collection of essays was so interesting to me and full of good advice.

• This is NOT A Writing Manual, by Kerri Majors. No exercises or anything of the sort to follow. The author presents her journey into the writing world and everything that helped her along the way. After finishing it, I found a list of possible jobs young writers want to go into. When I told one of my friends about this book, she had only one question: Why doesn't the creative writing curriculum at our school make this a required reading?

Other books have made their claim on my shelf, and will remain there. 

• Shel Silverstein. My guess is that the first book of his I received was Where the Sidewalk Ends, since that book is the one that is splitting down the middle. As a kid, I loved to read his poems and fall up into whatever world he created there. Life can be chaotic, especially once reaching adulthood. These remind me to have fun with whatever I'm doing or whatever project I'm working on. I read his book so often when I was little that now when I free write my own poetry, it comes out sounding similar to his. 

• The Barnum Museum, by Stephen Millhauser.  It's a book of Millhauser's short stories, and they are so wonderfully crafted that I want to scream to the world to read them. Yet...then again, he is such a good writer that I want to keep this secret to myself. A lot of it is description, but it's interesting (aka not Nathaniel Hawthorne) description. And its fantasy. 

What do you mean, obsessed with Harry Potter?
(Below is an extension of the favorite's shelf.)

(Sidenote: Harry Potter, my favorite book series, would be on my favorites shelf, except it doesn't have a place on my shelf since it would take up so much of it. It sits on top of my shelf, along with many other books on the subject, an extra Chamber of Secrets DVD, and two VHS's from the first two films.) 

What books are on your favorite's shelf? I would love to hear! 

#FP - Week 1

I have been keeping track of my Friday Phrases, thanks to Timehop!

How about I share them? Every Friday, until I run out (or come up with more!). They will include some that are recent, but most will be older.

Week One

• Eleanor’s voice was calm. “My story will be heard—that time will come. Until then, I wait my turn on the other side of Jessica’s brain.”

digitalblasphemy.com 

• “To get out of the book,” he said, “You have to work your way through the book—to the other side. When it’s the end, you’ll be free.”

• “The other side of the universe is a far drive m’lady, just relax.” Heeding the captain’s words, I pulled my book out and started to read.

• This world was perfect, but not like the other. Touching the mirror’s cold glass, she wondered how she could get back to the other side.

• On the other side of the bookcase, she found no hidden passageway. She found a book that had fallen: the diary of her great grandmother. 

Behind The Title

At the end of my last semester, I sat in my fiction professor’s office to hear his critique on the revision I’d submitted. It was a stroke of luck that I’d been able to submit it in the first place.  

I’d given him the first twenty pages of my work in progress, “Realm.” In the other fiction workshops I’d taken I was required to write anything other than genre fiction, which to me was nothing at all. All of my ideas are fantasy fiction. Currently, my revision is a portal fantasy (so far, untitled) and my work in progress ("Realm") is high fantasy.

Once I listened to what my professor had to say, I grabbed my backpack and turned to walk out of the door.

Except as I stepped out of his office, I stumbled back in, pulled by a great force that could only mean my backpack strap was caught on the latch of the door. One of my classmates sat in the lounge on a couch, her laughter filling the small space. My professor, also laughing, asked, “Are you okay?” and I muttered a quiet, “I’m fine,” before I walked away.

Imagine that, the last encounter with my fiction professor.

I strode down the hall, still laughing, and it wasn’t until I reached the stairs that I remembered something a good friend of mine told me.  

We were in the Writing Center at our school, where I used to tutor. Discussion had popped up (as it usually did, since most of us were English majors) on what our memoir will be titled. She had already come up with hers, one of deep meaning that was based off of a song. I loved the sound of it.

“What about me?” I asked. If I come up with titles, it would have to be first, and I wasn’t about to listen to all of the songs on my iTunes.

Without skipping a beat, half-joking, she replied, “My Awkward Life.”

It’s the same answer she gave me when I asked her what I should call my blog.

True, she meant it as a joke, but to me it was more than that. Everyone’s life is awkward, and moments like this are ones we relate to. And someone who spends the majority of her time staring at a computer screen, playing with her imaginary friends, is about as awkward as you can get.